Have you ever accidentally broke something valuable, or maybe accidentally hurt someone? Is "Sorry, I didn't mean to," the most used phrase in your vocabulary? If your answer is yes to any of the above you might be a little like Clumsy Girl.
8 a.m.
It all begins with the pounding earthquake of the alarm going off way too early. She grunts, yet to open her eyes and reluctantly flings her body towards the annoying sound on the nightstand. The knuckle of her fingers, ever so gently, yet somehow with all the power she has, somehow shoot the alarm off the table and in-between the crack of the bed and the wall . Never again will she be able to recreate this magic trick which would seem as if Houdini fabricated or something.
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Ugh. Seriously. The crust on her lashes pulls apart as she opens her eyes. She was going to hit snooze and roll over for seven minutes, but now she has no choice. She’s up. The alarm keeps blaring until she awkwardly and painfully reaches under the bed. With a strained arm and a loud groan, she’s able to grab the alarm and turn it off once and for all. Time to begin the day.
9 a.m.
But first, she has to put on her face. Okay. There’s the face wash, the moisturizer, the sunscreen, the primer, the foundation. What else? Oh, her favorite part. Her new felt-tip eyeliner. You know the one that cost her almost half a paycheck. She moves in gently to get that cat-wing fierce.
The room is silent. The only sound is of her heart beating against her chest. She holds her breath and presses the liner to her eyelid. With just a small flick of the wrist and BAM! She did it! Yes! She raises her hands up in celebration only to ever so carefully smack the open bottle of make-up remover, sending it splattering down to the floor and all over her socks. Sigh. Where are the paper towels?
12 p.m.
She had to change her socks, but it’s burger day at the cafeteria and nothing gets her going like a cheese-covered meat patty. With ketchup, of course. She sits down at the nearest table and squirts a circle of ketchup onto her burger. It’s a little more than most people would prefer, but she doesn’t seem to mind the side-eyes she’s getting from her friends.
She slaps the bun back on and goes in for the first bite, her mouth-watering from the greasy goodness. With the burger tucked carefully in her hand and a smile stretched over her lips she hears a plop. Uh-oh. This could only mean one thing. Slowing lowering her eyes to her lap she visualizes what she already knows is there. Red and sticky ketchup. On her brand-new white shirt. Why is it always white? She swears every white shirt she owns has some sort of stain on it because she has the eating skills of a three year old at their birthday party.
4 p.m.
She made sure to change her shirt before meeting her friend to go shopping. Maybe she’ll buy more black this time. She stands outside by her car in the parking lot to wait for her BFF to arrive. Shuffling through her purse she pulls out her chap stick. Mmm. Coconut and Pear. Her favorite.
Just as she pops the cap to apply it, the tube flies out of her hand as if she has just insulted it. That happens fairly often, actually. Her skill to drop items for no reason is resume worthy, but if this were football, she’d be third string receiver. She watches it roll down the slopped pavement of the parking lot, stopping just at the foot of another car’s tire. Phew. She takes a few steps to chase it, when the car’s rear lights come on. Wait, no. Don’t drive. Now she’s running. Sir. Sir, wait please don’t go!
Too late. She’s forced to watch the love of her Chap Stick life burn and die. And by burn and die, that means get run over by the car, cracked open and have its coconut oily goodness seep out and onto the dirty pavement. Whhhyyyy?!
10 p.m.
Not over the trauma she’s experienced at the parking lot, she gently places her newborn tube of Chap Stick on her desk, backing away with both eyes on it the entire time so that way it won’t commit suicide off her desk. She spins around quickly to make sure there’s no tricky banana peels to make her slip. Where’s her phone? Oh, resting quietly on her bed and not between the cracks of it. She peers across the room at her make-up remover. It’s almost empty, but the lid’s on. Clothes are ketchup-free. Okay…What’s going on? Is there anything else that’s going to be dropped, cracked, broken, stained, hurt or all of the above? She closes her eyes and holds her breathe to wait.
A few minutes go by, but nothing has happened yet. OK. We're in the clear. Just wait for what tomorrow can bring, probably a spilled coffee and falling up the stairs. She can't wait.
